


Scald me; I won't melt

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Trainees, Duelling, Erections, Kissing, M/M, Mild Blood, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 22:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14778575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks
Summary: For draco100's prompt "relative" and harry100's prompt "fever". The rest is pretty much covered in the tags.





	Scald me; I won't melt

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in a writing slump due to having a new job (yay!) and having had visiting relatives (also yay!), but I desperately needed to do some writing today to prove it's still in there. :P I hope you enjoy! This is unbeta'd so feel free to point out if I've made any glaring typos.

He comes at me, and his violence is tinged with elation, like the leap of fire from the touch of a match. We're too old for this—or too young. We didn't get a good start, Potter and I: my hand unshaken, a useless appendage. I'd never felt that before: uselessness. I'd been taught I was _everything_.

I know better now, twenty-three and training to be, of all things, an Auror. I'm not everything; I'm just a Malfoy, a name that drips notoriety but not the kind that can get me anything anymore. Except his fist in my face.

 

It's all in the name of the duel. He doesn't simply attack me in random hallways; I don't want to give the wrong impression. It's never like sixth year. In fact, I suspect he feels guilty for that, if the look I catch in his eye when he thinks I don't know he's staring is any indication.

Sometimes there's another look altogether. It's interesting: This life I'm carving for myself… I'm trying to be anything but what I see reflected in people's eyes—and everything reflected in his. He looks at me, and I watch him go up in flames.

 

Now me, I'm cool as a cucumber. I'm absolute-zero to his heatwave. If he throws a hex, I dodge without breaking a sweat. If he backs me across the room, I go willingly, never breaking eye contact. He never ruffles me, not even when he's got me on the ground, my tunic ripped from his handy charm, lip bleeding, duel over. 

Because I've realised that's what he wants: to unhinge me. Not to win, to best me with wand-work or even to see me hurt. He only wants me to crack, like he does. And instead of cracking, I smile.

 

One day, it happens. When he comes at me, he pins my wrists against the lockers— _bang!_ This time, his fever translates differently, and I can't smile in quiet triumph because he's kissing me. I relax against the vise of him… open my mouth. I taste surprise on his tongue along with the sweat lingering on his upper lip. We're both hard in moments. 

He pulls back, his eyes darting between mine, trying to gauge the interior of me, the state of my hinges, as it were. He presses into me harder, wordless interrogation, desperate for my answer.

 

I let him wait for it, surreptitiously enjoying his hard cock. 

"Let go of me," I finally say.

He does in a flash, as if my words were a charm worked wandlessly on him. 

I come forward slowly, returning to his heat, chest to chest, my parted lips barely touching his. I don't kiss. I simply wait a moment, and then smile against his mouth before I walk away.

It's all relative, you see: the inferno of his passion, the reservedness of mine. Maybe he'll never know, maybe I'll never let him see: That it's for him alone that I burn.


End file.
